


Can't Stop (This Thing We Started)

by lazarus_girl



Category: Faking It (TV 2014)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-24
Updated: 2016-02-24
Packaged: 2018-05-23 00:06:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6098365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living together as college roommates in Boston, Karma and Amy have a new life for themselves and they’ve got everything figured out. Everything except how much is too much in their longstanding friends-with-benefits arrangement. Karma wants more, unsure if Amy will give it to her, and what the cost to their relationship might be if she does.</p><p>
  <i>“Tonight is about you and Amy. No one else.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Stop (This Thing We Started)

**Author's Note:**

> Future fic. Follows canon. A loose fill of [this](http://fakingitfanfiction.tumblr.com/post/137221058437/can-someone-write-a-karmy-fic-preferably) prompt, which I based on the [alternate cut](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Im8Ajuk4gE8) of the Nikki and Kat storyline in Eric Amadio’s _After Sex_. To keep connections with it, I’ve peppered in lines of dialogue you’ll know if you’re familiar with the film. I really wanted to explore how time would change the nature of Karma and Amy’s relationship, tied to Karma’s underlying curiosity about her own desires and her unresolved feelings for Amy. This is the result. I wouldn’t watch the clip or read this in a NSFW environment. Title from/inspired by the Bryan Adams song of the same name.  
> 

_The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there."  
_ – L.P. Hartley, _The Go-Between._

***

Tonight is about you and Amy. No one else.

You’ve both declined every party invite messaged to you this week. First, came the campaign from Alex and Georgie, wanting to celebrate finishing the most murderous psych paper you’ve ever written. Then, a curve ball surprise text from Riley, the hottest girl in Amy’s film class (pretty much the hottest girl _ever_ , if you’re honest) and her latest fling. And finally, belatedly as ever, Xavier’s suggestion when he remembered he was actually meant to be your boyfriend instead of a walking sex toy. Even an invite to a new bar from Sexy Steve across the hall – your running mate, carrier of heavy shit, and answerer of doors in nothing but CK’s – couldn’t sway you. No one was going to talk you out of your night with Amy, no matter how hot they were, how many times they pleaded and begged, or did their best puppy eyes.

Sure, you’re in college now, roomies in what you're both certain is the smallest, coldest apartment in the whole of Boston, nevermind Newton. You each have a small circle of friends that exists separately from the ones you have in common, and you’re centred and settled, and most importantly _happy_ with the lives you’ve built away from Austin. But, sometimes, it’s just nice to take a breath and step back from all the craziness of school, work, and various social obligations, to just be Karma and Amy. To reminiscence and make jokes you don’t have to explain. To veg out in front of the TV (the mini home theatre setup you have is the most expensive thing you and Amy own) in sweats eating pizza. In a lot of ways, it’s just like high school, except there’s the addition of beer, and no one yells at you for not going to bed, or suggests bingeing _that_ many episodes of _Orphan Black_ in one sitting might be ‘detrimental to your health and wellbeing’ (thanks mom).

Anyway, there’s actually no one else you _can_ do this kind of stuff with. You don’t have that level of comfort with anyone but Amy, happy to be makeup free in your oldest, comfiest clothes. Truthfully, you couldn’t live with anyone else either, because she doesn’t bitch when you use up all the hot water or drink juice from the carton. To combat the water thing, you shower together. A lot. What? It conserves water, your mom has always been a proponent of that. Besides the juice and the showering arrangements, you’re still the only person with fast enough reflexes to use her EpiPen on the rare occasion she needs it, and on a related note, you’re also the only person she trusts to cook things that won’t _kill_ her (you want to burn the entire world stock of peanut oil and Reese’s). Without you, she’d starve. She’d probably finish her film projects on time, but she’d still starve. So what if you spend eighty percent of the time in Amy’s bed rather than your own? She sleeps better with you there. She always has. Frankly, it’d be more sensible if you got a one bedroom with bigger square footage, the rent you’re paying is a waste (wow, you’ve spent _way_ too many years watching _House Hunters_ ).

You just need each other. You always have, and you’re pretty certain you always will. She’s still the Fey to your Poehler, the moon to your sun, etcetera.

The history you have is rich and complex, no one really understands it, but honestly, you’re fine with that. If you had a dollar for the number of times you had to correct people – especially when you first got here – so they knew Amy was in fact _not_ your girlfriend, you could pretty much wipe both of your climbing tuition debt. All those looks and questions used to give you pause, made you think you were strange for having such comfort and intimacy with a person other than the ones you’ve both dated. But, over the years, there have been an equal number of people who said they were jealous of you both, and that they wished their best friend meant as much as you and Amy do to each other.

When they put it like that, it makes you feel like it’s something to be proud of instead of something to hide.

Now, you’re closer than you’ve ever been, even when you were kids. All the bullshit is over, the weirdness is over. You’ve been to Boston Pride with her every year, had a ridiculous amount of fun, and gotten hoards of phone numbers. You’re each other’s wingwoman. You can tell an Amy girl at twenty paces, and she has a finely tuned bullshit meter that means you get someone who’s still cute, but is much less of a douche bag than the kind of guys you’re usually inexplicably drawn to (Xavier is something of an anomaly, he’s exceptionally pretty for a guy, and you were both swayed by his hair and cheekbones). You can say the words ‘Liam Booker’ without either of you breaking into a cold sweat, and she can say the words ‘Reagan Castillo’ without you wanting to explode into a ball of rage. You can hold hands pretty much whenever you like and it’s perfectly fine. You can kiss her goodbye when you leave for class early and no one has a heart attack. She can kiss you in clubs to get weird creeps off your back and it’s not cause for some huge existential crisis. Hell, she’s even gone down on you a few times when you’ve gotten tired of the selection of guys BC has to offer and you’re horny as hell. And _fuck_ is she good at it. If it was something you could rank, she’d be right at the top of the percentile. Not only are the orgasms she works you to of the see stars, knee-shake variety, but they’re steady too. You know it’s because she actually knows what she’s doing and doesn’t attack you like some slobbering dog. You like getting your pussy licked, she likes to lick it. _Simple_. Given some of the weird shit you heard people on your floor getting up to back when you had a dorm on campus, this is nothing at all.

Fuck what anyone else thinks, it’s none of their damn business.

If you’d thought this way in high school things could’ve been a lot less fraught. It’s taken you far too long to engage in this ‘fuck it’ mentality that Amy’s always subscribed to, but you’re so glad you have.

Except, there’s always been a stopping block in all this freeform extravaganza. A thin, vague boundary you both step around, that you’ve never ever crossed, even back in the mists when you were faking it. You’ve never had the full Amy Experience, so to speak. You’ve _heard_ other girls experience it – few things turn you on more, if you’re honest. You’ve had the warm up, but lately, you’ve been wondering what it’d be like to sleep with her. Full on, totally naked, mind-blowingly good sex with someone who not only gives a fuck if you get off, but how good it is when it happens (caring is sharing, take note men of the world).

Maybe it’s too many Bud Light’s talking, or the fact that you’re nearing the end of the semester before it’s officially your last year here (that stuff always makes you weirdly nostalgic and yearning). Or, it’s the fact that Amy just came sauntering back in with more beer, wearing her favourite little sleep shorts and a tank, looking all kinds of delicious. Suddenly, it’s like that desire to know has shifted from the vague curiosity you felt in high school to a legitimate want. You need more than the quick release. You want the slow unwinding other girls get. She’s had a taste of you, quite literally, and now you want a taste of her.

There, you said it.

Except, you didn’t say it out loud, and that’s something of a problem. Voicing your desire has never – excuse the pun come easily. At least Amy doesn’t judge you for it (contrary to popular belief, Alex, you actually _do_ know what it is to be a ‘liberated, sexually aware woman,’ thank you very _fucking_ much).

“Earth to Karma,” Amy calls, snapping her fingers right in front of your face. “Did you even hear me?” she laughs, climbing onto the bed.

You have a nice ish living room, but the bed is always preferable to the couch, and that’s _not_ just because you’re having less than saintly thoughts right now. All those thoughts are centring upon the fact you haven’t got laid in weeks, and you’ve both been so busy with class you haven’t even had time to fool around. Even Xavier couldn’t be counted on, he’s flaked out on you every time you’ve tried to get him to come over, because he’s somehow always too engaged with his band or his art (you never learn, those art dudes are like catnip) to pay you any _real_ attention.

“Hmm?”

“I said it’s the last beer,” she repeats, shoving you playfully. “You mind sharing?”

“Sure, sure. Cool. Whatever.”

At this point, it seems stupid to say no. You’ve swapped more spit kissing her than you will sharing the beer. That, and the fact that going downstairs to your favourite liquor haunt feels like expending too much energy right now. Admitting you _have_ a favourite liquor haunt sounds shady, but being twenty-one is still kind of a novelty for you both.

“Awesome,” she declares, uncapping the bottle with practiced ease before taking a long sip and passing it to you.

“Thanks,” you say, and take the smallest nothing-y sip _ever_ like you’re suddenly twelve at your first party.

If it were that party, it would be a sip of a cheap ass wine cooler that had enough sugar to cause diabetes, and you’d soon find yourself being slobbered on by Johnny Mackenzie, during a brief game of spin the bottle, and then _everyone_ being sent home when Mrs Mackenzie (a.k.a. Satan in heels) busted you all. Besides the wine coolers, the kiss was horrible, Johnny Mackenzie was a terrible kisser who needed a vat of Chapstick. Amy, by comparison, you’d soon find out, has the softest lips in existence, and is probably the _best_ kisser on the planet.

You can’t even blame your sudden (or not so sudden) hornyness on being drunk, because you haven’t drunk enough _to_ be drunk. Tolerances and all that. You’re pleasantly buzzed, and still a little mellow from your latest batch of Amy-friendly pot brownies - hey, you’re in college, you got over a lot of shit, and Xavier introduced you to the joys of joints – that made your afternoon of Darren Aronofsky movies deliciously, hilariously, and beautifully weird. Plus, you have a whole new appreciation for _Black Swan_ now that you’ve reached the point in your lives where Amy can blurt out ‘fuck, Natalie Portman’s hot’ and you don’t blink, and she doesn’t five seconds later when you say pretty much the same about Mila Kunis. The icing on the cake? The fact you turned to her during the sex scene and told her how hot they were together (let’s not talk about the mindfuckery aspect), and barely an eyebrow was raised. Instead, she smiled and said, ‘too fucking true’ before clinking her beer with yours in toast.

“God,” she sighs deeply, flopping back against the pillows while you cradle the beer, “I’m so glad you convinced me to take a break from working.”

“It’s my life’s mission to distract you, Aims,” you nod, finally taking another, significantly more adult gulp, before adding more seriously. “I don’t like it when you turn into a giant stress ball like that. The film is amazing, you’re amazing, OK?”

“This has been awesome. Thanks,” she looks over at you, all soft eyes and softer smile as she brushes your forearm. Your skin prickles in a way it hasn’t for a really long time. “Hey, don’t drink it all!” she exclaims, sitting forward to snatch it away from you.

She’s so relaxed right now, you could pretty much say anything and she’d be fine with it. The girl of a few hours ago, pacing the apartment worried about her editing and impending deadlines is long gone.

“I’ve been thinking,” you begin, because really you can’t _stand_ it in here suddenly.

The air in the room is too thick, and too heavy, and the weight of your frustration is getting to be a little too much.

“Oh, fuck, that sounds dangerous,” she chuckles, before draining the dregs of the beer. So much for sharing. “Please tell me it doesn’t involve getting dressed up, or going outside, or, anything remotely strenuous?” she continues, leaning over to put the bottle on her nightstand. It joins an impressive collection.

“No, like, really thinking,” you try again, and her head lifts, interest piqued. “Why have we never slept together?”

It’s a valid question. OK, so you didn’t actually mean to put it quite like _that_ , but it’s out there now.

“Where did that come from? Are you in your sophist mode of drunkenness right now? I don’t have the brain capacity for it.”

“I just wanted know is all,” you’re nervous suddenly, the sweaty palms kind of nervous, and it feels like you read her wrong. “Why haven’t we ever gone there?’

She puffs out a breath. “I don’t know, Karm, maybe it’s because I’ve known you for sixteen years, not sixteen minutes. It’s complicated,” she sighs heavily. “It wouldn’t be like when we fool around, you know that, and I know that. It’d be different.”

“Different how?” you ask, scooting back to level with her before you realise.

She just looks at you, not glaring exactly, but her eyes narrow slightly, like you’ve just said the most idiotic thing in existence. You _have_ said the most idiotic thing in existence, but it’s kind of a miracle you held out this long. You didn’t even go that far when you were faking it, and you were all about maintaining authenticity. If you actually had been a couple, you probably would’ve spent ninety-five percent of the time fucking each other’s brains out. Lovingly, of course. And there it is. _Love_. Intimacy like that – naked, sweaty, orgasmic intimacy – breeds feelings, and you’re not meant to have those.

Fuck it, you’ll probably never have this opportunity again so, you go for broke and ask the one question that’s bounced around your mind ever since you found out Amy slept with Reagan in a very _not_ fake way. All night. More than once. She was shy then, awkward about her feelings, and barely told you anything. You know she’s changed a lot, more comfortable in her skin and confident with it, even if she doesn’t quite believe you when you tell her she’s ‘effortlessly sexy.’ Newsflash, she is.

“What’s it like with another girl?” you blurt out, adding, “Sex, I mean,” when her brows furrow in confusion. “I’m just … I don’t know, you’ve made me curious.”

She gasps. She actually gasps when you say it aloud, fumbling and weirdly nervous, like you’re suddenly sixteen again in your buttermilk yellow bedroom with the batik duvet, trying to negotiate holding onto the girl that means the world to you while she struggles with the girl she’s becoming.

“You finally did it!” she laughs. “It’s only taken you five years. I’m impressed you held out.”

“Hey!” you swat at her, offended. “I didn’t want to pry, I guess. It was forever ago, you were pretty shy about it all.”

“And now, not so much, right?” she turns over to face you, amused, resting her head on her hand.

“Something like that,” you smile, ignoring the deep, burning blush you can feel colouring your cheeks.

So much for being a sexually liberated woman.

“OK,” she puffs out a breath. “If you really want to know, here goes,” she pauses for effect, smirking. “Well, I like it for one thing.”

“No shit, really? All that screaming made me think you hated it!”

“Cute,” she deadpans.

“The walls are thin, babe. I _know_ you like it.”

“Just wanted to be clear, you know?”

“Duly noted. Continue,” you encourage, giving a little wave.

“I like how soft a girl’s skin is. I like the curve of their hips and their asses,” her tongue darts out to lick her lips, and you’re completely transfixed. “I like the weight of their breasts, and how stiff their nipples go when you touch them, or lick, or suck.”

You can’t help but let out a shuddering breath at that, because _fuck_ did it get hot in here all of a sudden. Amy could totally give up writing poetry and start writing erotic fiction, because this is really working for you, and it’s not just because her voice is all raspy and, like, _sexy_ when she’s in this mode.

“I like how responsive they can be. I like how each girl is different when they kiss you and touch you. Some girls are shy and quiet, and when they come it’s just like this sweet, soft little noise. And some,” her face blooms into a bright smile. “Like you, are grabby, and feisty, and _loud_ , and take the roof off when they come,” you try to look away, embarrassed, but she reaches over and tilts your head back to make you keep looking. “And that’s equally hot to me, because it’s all expressions of the same passion.”

“What does it feel like?” you venture, small and timid.

“Good. Different kinds of good, but good,” she’s calmer now, defences dropping, it’s less awkward. “Sometimes, it’s quick and intense and you can come so hard it kind of hurts, but in a really good way,” she laughs a little. “Other times,” she pauses, almost wistful when she says, “it’s sexy, really sexy, and kind of delicious. And it feels like you’re there for days with them. Your bodies are the same anatomically, so it kind of makes it easy to begin with. Like they fit, naturally. You get more, I think. It’s about more than getting off, you know?”

 _Fuck,_ you don’t know how long you can look at her and listen to her when she’s talking like this. It’s making you embarrassingly wet.

You nod. “That’s _definitely_ different!” you say, deflecting, saying anything to avoid focussing on the very real ache that's settled between your legs.

“Well, yeah. It’s about pleasure and connecting, for me, anyway. It’s powerful, sensual. I want it to be good. I want girls to feel good when they’re with me,” she shrugs.

She’s succeeded admirably if what you hear at night is anything to go by. You have to force yourself not to think about the fact you know – with painful accuracy – what Amy sounds like when she comes, or how she likes to be fucked. She doesn’t call it fucking, but you know there have been girls when it’s purely about the sex. Crazy, animalistic, blush-in-the-morning kind of sex. She doesn’t make love either. She does slow and sensual and she can be teasing, so they beg and plead shamelessly. But, you don’t think she connects completely like she says. It’s never the sweet, life-altering Nicholas-Sparks-romance kind of sex. You could be totally wrong about that, except, she’s told you countless times that she’s in it for the fun. No complications, no drama, no straight girls experimenting. There’s a deep irony to her stance that hasn’t escaped you, but you’ve never thought of what you have with Amy as an experiment. It just _is_. That’s what makes it so difficult to explain.

You don’t know which you kind of sex you want right now.

The fact that you’re wanting _any_ sex with Amy is still kind of mind-blowing. It’s entirely the wrong moment because Amy’s room looks like a bomb hit it. There’s pizza boxes and beer bottles all over, the TV is still on, there’s no mood lighting whatsoever, and you can hear music blaring from the apartment across the street. It’s nothing like you imagined, but you want it to happen, right now. So badly.

“You give your whole self to it, your whole body. It doesn’t work if you hold back. Girls can tell.”

“Boys can’t,” you snort.

“Uh-huh,” she replies, with a knowing look.

You do hold back. Not always, but mostly. Truthfully, few guys can satisfy you the way Amy can. At first, you just thought it was the guy. Then, you thought you were too hopped up on the whole hot, illicit aspect of fooling around with her, but it’s not. Like she said, it’s different with her, and you’re different too.

“What do I taste like?” you hear yourself saying, like it’s not you at all. Some out of body thing is happening.

Apparently, it’s Fuck Boundaries Day, and you’ve lost all sense of shame.

You don’t even have the good grace to look away. Amy, to her credit, doesn’t baulk at the question. She just smirks.

“Good,” she assures. “Every girl is a little different, and, definitely _not_ how guys do,”

There it is, that word again, _different_. Except, it’s shifting meaning in your head, all you keep thinking right now is ‘different’ sounds more like ‘better.’ The longer this goes on, the worse it gets, but you can’t seem find it in yourself to back off or walk away. You’re really, _really_ fucking horny now, to the point that it’s almost painful not to touch yourself.

“Kinda salty, kinda sweet, but nothing I can really pin down,” she tries, attempting to clarify. “I know, that’s a shitty answer,” she pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Butterscotch maybe? Yeah, that’s pretty close.”

“Seriously?” you squeak out, because you don’t believe her for one second. “Do you like it? Do you like when …” you tail off, not _quite_ able to be as candid.

“What? Going down on you? Duh! Of course,” she smiles, briefly touch your arm again. Just like before, your skin prickles. “Honestly? I love how you taste, love watching you come. I love hearing it. I love knowing that I got you there, and that you enjoyed it.”

You swallow hard, not quite believing what she’s saying, how open, how shameless and brazen she’s being. Where did your shy Amy go? You don’t think you’ve ever been this turned on in your life before.

She tilts her head in question. “You do enjoy it?”

There’s no point in lying. None at all. “Yes.”

She leans forward then, wearing that same delicious smirk when she asks. “You’re totally turned on right now, aren’t you?”

“Amy!” you whine, casting your head to the ceiling.

You didn’t think she’d revel quite so much in all this.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she’s softer now, more earnest and more familiar. “It’s OK to be turned on and want things.”

“I know but,” you start, moving instinctively closer.

“What?” she pushes, just a little. “Tell me what you want.”

She’s going to make you say it, but that’s exactly how the whole fooling around era began. It all started from a very drunken conversation about how shitty your then boyfriend, Danny, was at going down on you while being ridiculously sexually frustrated, faced with a fresh-from-clubbing Amy looking ridiculously hot. Here you are, nearly three years down the line, with much the same issues, but you’re fucking bored of mediocre sex punctuated by the very _not_ mediocre time you get with Amy.

You figure this is a one shot kind of deal, so, you go with the words sitting on the tip of your tongue.

“I want you, right now. I want you to show me how it feels instead of just telling me.”

Whatever was left of those boundaries is completely _fucking_ gone now. It’s all over.

For once, you’re left completely speechless because she’s never looked at you like she is right now. And yet, you don’t back away, you don’t go barrelling out the door for the safety of your room and slam the door behind you. Instead, you surge forward, grabbing her face and pressing your lips to hers in a rough, inelegant kiss. There’s the briefest of pauses, and then she’s kissing back, smiling into it.

“OK,” she breathes, when she pulls away briefly, tracing the shape of your bottom lip with her thumb before kissing you again.

It feels different to before, that’s your immediate thought as she pushes you back toward the mattress, cradling your head. You can’t figure out why exactly, because you’ve kissed hundreds, if not thousands of times now. Fast kisses, desperate kisses, greedy kisses, quick kisses, sweet kisses and everything in between, but none of them were like this. She’s lying almost on top of you, kissing in this slow, heated way, with her tongue curling just a little as it slides into your mouth, searching you. All at once, they taper off into nothing, and you’re reluctant to stop, but you don’t have time to complain because she’s straddling you, low on your hips and the tank she’s wearing goes over her head, cast off in one perfectly fluid move. You don’t follow to see where it lands.

Yes, this is _very_ different.

For a second, you don’t know what to do, or say, or where to put your hands, because Amy is hovering above you, half naked. No bra. She hasn’t been wearing one this whole time. It’s a small detail. She does it a lot because she’s lazy, and you’ve seen her naked before, so seeing her breasts isn’t that much of a big deal, but there’s a purpose, an invitation – you can touch if you want to. You don’t mean to stare, but you can’t help it. Suddenly, there’s so much skin, and so much _Amy_ , perfect breasts and rosy little nipples, and you’re aching to touch, and kiss, and _other_ stuff you’ve never even given thought to before. It’s a lot to handle.

She doesn't say anything, letting you look. There’s a smile instead, not smug, but soft, and there’s a flash of the girl you’re used to when she leans down, pressing her body flush to yours, hands either side of your head. You can feel the warmth of her skin through your shirt, and it’s intoxicating. Your hands ghost her sides, too nervous to touch. With her there, mouth so close to yours, it feels like an eternity passes before you kiss again, teetering on the edge of it. When it happens, you tilt your head, straining for more when those kisses start to drift along your jaw.

Then, you can feel her breath hot on your cheek when she moves upwards to whisper, “I’ll make you feel so good.”

Coming out of anyone else’s mouth that would sound all kinds of cocky and arrogant, but coming from her, in a sultry whisper surrounded by kisses you can’t help but yield to, it feels like a promise. You let out loud groan, biting on your lip to keep from saying something ridiculous because, _God_ , she’s barely done anything and this is amazing already. Instead, you push yourself upward, pulling Amy closer by the hips. She grinds down a little, and you let out a low, shuddering breath because even _that_ feels nice right now. You’re not really sure what to do, so you keep your hands there, resting, anchoring, and you glance up at her. She gazes back at you through heavy-lidded eyes, her lips parted, just so, tongue darting out to wet them. You almost want to kiss her again, but you don’t. You kiss somewhere else instead, burying your mouth in her breasts, licking a path in the valley between them. Her hand flies immediately to the back of your head, urging you onwards. So you carry on, confident suddenly, greedily peppering kisses across her chest while she runs her fingers through your hair, tugging slightly.

“A little slower,” she says in this low voice you’ve never heard before. It sends a little thrill up your spine.

She’s never let you do this before, she’s never let you do anything to her before, it’s always been about you. Nothing really beyond kissing and the odd dry humping session. It’s then you realise it: she’s different too. She was right, this isn’t like the other girls. So, you do slow, pressing your lips to her skin more gently, so your kisses drag and linger. Her hand falls away to her side and when you glance up again, her eyes are closed and her head is thrown back.

“Yeah, that’s good,” she manages, forcing her eyes open. “That’s good,” she repeats, tilting her head down to capture your lips, “But, this could be a lot better if you were wearing less clothes,” she continues, punctuating her words with kisses. “And I got to kiss you like that maybe?” she muses, cradling your face in her hands, looking down at you wondrously like you’re precious.

She’s easing you into this, giving you room to breathe, and you love her for it. You’re nervous and excited, gripping her hips tighter, nails biting in when you nod and say, “Yes …”

There’s a desperate edge to your voice that surprises you both. She moves back, shifting onto her knees, and you scramble to copy her, wanting to keep up. You don’t want to look like some fumbling idiot. She kisses you again, just a brief peck, purposefully, before reaching for your the hem of your shirt, fingertips curling around and lifting it slightly. Then, she slides her hands underneath the fabric to stroke your stomach lightly, nails grazing just a little.

It makes you jump, abs flexing under her touch, and she makes an amused little noise. “Relax,” she murmurs, and you just about _die_ because of the memory it stirs. “It’s OK.”

You weren’t ready then, but you’re ready now. So ready.

Then, she’s kissing you again, heavy and languid with lots of tongue, making you work for it as she inches your shirt up higher. She keeps stroking at the skin as it’s revealed with the lightest of touches. When her kisses move to your throat, latching on, she’s less light. Determined to leave marks somehow. Without her saying anything, you lift your arms, impatient for her to finally pull the shirt off. When it’s gone, tossed away into the far corner, and you’re just in your bra and sweatpants, you stay looking at her instead, eyes locked on hers, slowly letting your arms drop to your sides. You’ve never had this much time before. She’s never undressed you either. Usually, it’s a rush and she’s in your panties before you can blink. Sometimes they don’t even come off and she works you over through the material instead. It’s a pattern that extends to your exes, clothes have always been something to discard as fast as possible, grabbing at zippers and buttons so you can get to fucking. Nothing like this.

“There we are,” she says, sweetly. “Better, huh?”

All you do is nod, lurching forward to kiss her again, sucking in her bottom lip and keeping it. The kiss is harder, more desperate, and you moan into her mouth as she starts to stroke your stomach again lightly. Her fingertips trace your ribs, stopping short just under your bra. Your breath hitches at the contact, and you find yourself grasping for the duvet to keep yourself steady, material twisting in your hands. And, it gets better, because she finally moves to gently cup your breasts, giving the slightest squeeze. You’ve never been more thankful she’s so attentive, how well she knows your tells; how long to wait, how long to tease. Grudgingly, you break the kiss, wanting to tell her even that feels amazing, but you don’t have time, because then she’s kissing your shoulders in turn, hooking your bra straps and pulling them down slowly. When her hands are back on your breasts, squeezing and palming them briefly, you sigh, deep and content, eyes falling closed again. She reaches around, easily unhooking your bra. She just pushes the clasp against your back and it releases. You feel the tension lift immediately when she peels it away from your body.

“One handed,” you comment, breathlessly, a short burst of laughter bubbling up right after.

“Uh-huh,” she replies, sounding just a little smug.

She can. She absolutely can. No boy has managed that without a lot of fumbling around that threatens to kill the mood.

When you open your eyes again, she’s the one staring, eyes raking over your chest. Suddenly, you don’t care that they might be too small, or that the lady at Victoria’s Secret was probably lying when she said the left wasn’t bigger than the right because Amy’s head dips to kiss and stroke them, thumbs flicking over your already stiff nipples. She hums her appreciation, dipping her head down and taking one of them into her mouth, sucking gently at first before she switches to this swirling motion that makes you go kind of crazy.

“Fuck ... Amy … what …” it comes out in and around a loud gasp.

No boys have ever done _that_ either.

“Feels nice, right?” she asks, as she moves around, dropping little kisses all over your skin, cupping the breast she’s not kissing, before repeating the process on the other side, adding the barest flick of her tongue.

“Yeah, so much …”

Nice is kind of an understatement, but _fuck_ words right now because your whole body feels like jello. You swallow hard, finding it hard to focus, because she’s moving downwards now, her back dipping, body elongating. All you can look at is her ass – perfect and perky – waving in the air.

She doesn’t even have to push you backwards, you scoot back yourself, stretching out into the space she leaves, head on the pillow for the first time. It feels different to every other time you’ve laid down on this bed. She keeps going downwards, dotting haphazard kisses all the way down your stomach. All the while, her hands still cover your breasts, squeezing and kneading. Your eyes fall closed once more, and your back arches, seeking more. In response, her hands squeeze harder while her teeth nip at the skin just below your navel. Then, her hands slide away, and you miss the contact. You force your eyes open, met with the sight of her gazing up at you with such adoration, such _love,_ that it hurts you somehow. She’s waited so long to love you like this, to have you like this, and you wish you’d been braver, because how could you not want this?

“OK?” she asks, hands on your thighs, gently stroking, full of care and concern. You both know where this is going, and the territory is much more familiar. “This is still OK?”

“More than OK,” you answer, without hesitation.

She sighs, shaking her head a little, like she doesn't believe it or she’s dreaming. “Good, I’m just getting started,” she continues, holding your gaze while she unties the strings on your sweats, slow and careful, as if she’s worried you’ll break.

You watch, oddly fascinated, and all you can think is she has beautiful hands, perfect hands that touch you the right way, and hold you the right way. Hands that fit in yours like they’re made to be there. Then, those beautiful, perfect hands are tugging your sweats down with the same care. She kneels between your legs, lifting them and pulling off each pant leg in turn, before placing them carefully back down again. All the while, she keeps eye contact with you, and the weight of her gaze feels heavy. The only thing heavier now is the anticipation and the want. It hits you, quite suddenly, quite clearly, when she repeats her path in reverse, hands sliding all the way from your ankles and coming to rest mid high, you love this girl.

You love her more than anything else in the world. You love her more than anyone else in the world. Why has it taken so long to realise it?

“I won’t break,” you declare, less confidently than you’d hoped.

“Just being careful,” she replies, fingers closing around the lace edging of your panties. “And taking time to enjoy the view.”

She winks at you, actually _winks_ at you when she says that, dragging your panties down your legs so slowly it’s almost infuriating, before tossing them away with the grandest flourish you’ve seen.

For what feels like a long time, she just sits there, looking at you. No, it’s _more_ , she’s drinking you in, tilting her head just so, like she’s mapping out where she’ll kiss and touch, because yes, she can do that now. She can do what she wants to you, and you’ll just let her. She’s safe hands, after all. You trust her beyond words, and she trusts you. She stares so long you get to thinking, silly things about your body that you’re trying to quiet, because Amy looks like a goddess at all times, but particularly when she’s only wearing tiny shorts, and her hair is all tousled. But everything about the look in her eye says you have nothing to worry about and you won’t regret this in the morning like you have so many times before with people – guys – other than Amy.

You wish you’d made an effort now. Worn nicer clothes, or nicer underwear that matched, because you pride yourself on looking as hot as possible on occasions like this. But, you didn’t wake up this morning knowing you’d be in Amy’s bed tonight and definitely _not_ sleeping. Thank God it’s a Friday, because this is _so_ lasting all weekend, you don’t care. Amy can take all the time she wants, you’re not leaving this bed. Fuck phones with their interrupting texts and calls. Fuck flaky friends, and shitty selfish not-actually-boyfriends that don’t like labels. Fuck Sexy Steve and going downstairs to get the mail. Fuck. It. All (is cursing sexually contracted? You’re sure you never used to do it this much before). Fuck it all because, Amy’s mouth is on you again, dotting kisses across your stomach, teeth nipping when she reaches your left hip. And you know, you just _know_ that quite soon, her head will dip lower still and she’ll be working you over like she was born for it.

The thought alone makes you shudder.

You expect her to go straight for it now that she’s between your legs, palms skating over your stomach. Usually, she doesn’t linger, doesn’t tease or hold back, tongue delving deep into your folds with quick, practiced strokes before turning all her focus onto your clit and you’re practically screaming her name. It’s so intense sometimes, and your release so loud, that you have to cover your mouth or, she has to cover it for you to keep from alerting the whole building.

Except, she’s not doing that. She’s not doing any of that at all. She presses barely there kisses over your thighs in turn, lighter still on the inside, so it just feels like she’s breathing on your skin. The change is confusing at first, but you still find your hips lifting and your hands dropping to her head, threading your fingers through her hair, somehow holding back from yanking her head closer. She’s making you wait, teasing your lips with her tongue before pulling at them, just a little. This time, there's no hands on your hips or your stomach, steadying to stop you from bucking up wildly against her, instead, she hooks them around your thighs, gripping lightly.

The anticipation might kill you.

You whimper, desperate for more friction, for more of anything. It’s too much and not enough, the way she’s touching you, and you’re caught between trying to keep breathing, listening to the indecent sound of Amy’s tongue, starting to sweep and lap with this _agonising_ slowness that it feels like you’re dying in the _best_ way. You’re caught between sinking wholesale into that feeling, and watching her, because you can see her hips moving against the mattress. She moans against you at the contact, and suddenly you know, what she meant about giving your whole body and your whole self because you’ve _never_ felt this close before, this intimate, this connected.

“Oh fuck … Amy ... just … _please_?”

That sound is more familiar. That high-pitched little whine, caught in your throat as you throw your head back, eyes screwing tightly shut. You’ve never begged and pleaded like this before, and you’ve never wanted her this much either. It feels like forever until she does anything different, and you’re not entirely sure you said it aloud. But then, she moves her hands down, gripping tighter, lifting your legs so they’re resting on her shoulders. _Oh,_ does that shift in angle work for you. Where the _fuck_ did she learn all this? A few seconds after that, you stop thinking completely, because she presses closer into you, drawing your clit into her mouth and sucking lightly. You make a desperate _noise_ everytime she does it that no one else has ever managed, and your hand flies to the back of her head, urging her deeper. And then, just when you think it can’t get any better, it does, because she starts alternating with long strokes off her tongue all over, faster and faster.

“Why the fuck … didn’t … we do this … all the time?!”

All of that escapes between moans as she slows back down, and you feel her smile, humming appreciation, something like smug laughter bubbling up when she pulls her mouth away, licking her lips with relish. No. She can’t stop. No stopping. That’s the last thing you want. You were so close, so incredibly close - heart-pounding, tension in your belly close.

She’s officially the worst. For a few brief moments, you’re almost angry, but mostly you’re confused. You watch her transfixed, arms dropping back toward the mattress as she shimmies off her shorts and her underwear together, kicking them away. She’s naked. Completely naked, crawling back up toward you, looking at you like you’re the most wondrous, beautiful, perfect thing in the world. You’re still confused when she’s level with you, hovering above you so you’re surrounded by this curtain of blonde. You let out a long unsteady breath when her skins flush against yours, because of the weight, and the warmth, and the sheer _enormity_ of the moment. It suddenly occurs to you that there’s very little of you that isn’t touching her, and she’s not the worst at all, because she’s kissing you in this deliciously careful way, your lips just kind of brushing as she trades pecks, taking your hands in her own and lacing your fingers together, raising your joined hands above your head.

And then, you realise it. _Oh_. You can taste yourself, on her lips. It’s strange at first, that salty-sweet warmth, but then, you get to like it, kissing back harder, deeper, eager for more of it, tasting all that’s uniquely you on her tongue and in her mouth. It’s intoxicating. You roll onto your side when she does, letting go of her hands just to hold her instead, wrapping your arm around her waist as she reaches to cradle your face again with her left hand. Then she’s reaching up to push back the hair that’s fallen into your eyes, hand finally coming to rest above your head. Her right hand drops to your hip, tracing light little patterns with her fingertips. Even these small touches are having an effect, and you can feel heat pooling between your legs all over again.

By the time you stop kissing, you’re both breathing heavily, lungs aching, but reluctant to lose the contact.

“Butterscotch,” you breathe, stupefied.

“See,” she breathes, mouth still close to yours. “Told you.”

“Amy ….” is all you can manage, better, more elegant words stuck somewhere else as you stroke her face, compelled to touch. “Is this what it’s always like?” you add, breathlessly, looking her right in the eyes.

“No,” she answers, quickly, and her voice sounds so pure and so certain. “No, this is better. This is better than I _ever_ imagined it would be.”

Your heart sort of seizes in your chest at that, and you lurch forward, crushing your mouth against hers. You stay like that way, kissing, and kissing and kissing, heavy and open mouthed, cupping the back of her neck to pull her closer to you. Then you’re touching her face again, her beautiful, beautiful face, before letting your hands drift down to her chest. Cautiously, you try to copy what she did to you, kneading and stroking her breasts experimentally, fascinated.

Her back arches toward you, and she moans into your mouth. She likes it. You’ve never heard that before either, so you do it again, while you press quick kisses along her neck, and then her shoulders, your hands skating lower, palm flat on her stomach, not quite brave enough to do anything else quite yet. There are things you need to learn from her yet. You need more hands because you just want to touch and stroke every inch of her, and kiss everything you can see. You’ve never been happier about sex with the lights on before. You want to give yourself up to her, give your body, your whole self to her, just like she said.

This feels too right and too good to hold back.

You’re still kissing, lazy and slow, and you wrap your arms around Amy’s neck, fingers threading into her hair. She murmurs against your lips, smiling into the next kiss when you feel her hand leave your hip, pressing into the small of your back, urging you closer.

“C’mere,” she instructs gently. “I want to show you something different.”

Usually you’d be tense, but she’s talking so softly, looking at you with such sincerity that you just relax go with it. Carefully, she lifts your leg a little so it crosses toward hers. The new point of contact is nice, your foot brushing against her ankle. She kisses you in the same languid way as before, mouths connecting and disconnecting more, kisses finding their target less. Suddenly, her hand isn’t on your thigh anymore, it’s in between your legs, cupping gently. You gasp at it, eyes snapping open again.

“Trust me,” she says, keeping her voice in that low, sweet tone. It’s a statement, not a question. “I said I’d make you feel good.”

There’s a long pause before anything else happens, and then you feel it. You feel her fingers circling your clit, teasing, sliding easily through your slick, wet folds. A louder, sharper gasp comes out at, and your hand flies to her bicep, grabbing on, nails biting in to anchor yourself. Whenever you fooled around it never went this far, Amy never used anything but her mouth, and it’s overwhelming, having her touch you this way.

“Relax,” she breathes, her left hand stroking your hair idly.

You nod, too distracted by how she’s touching you to say anything else. She kisses you again, the barest press of her lips against yours, at the exact moment she eases her fingers inside of you for the first time. Except, it doesn’t feel like the first time, when she’s moving achingly – wonderfully – slow, curling them just so, with the right curve and the right pressure. And it’s so good. It’s so ridiculously good you know that you won’t take long. You know that it’ll be sooner rather than later, while she kisses you and strokes you, and all you can feel is her, and you’re moaning into her mouth, you’ll come. It’ll be nothing like other times. You’ll arch into her touch, say her name over and over as she draws it out for you. You’ll shudder and shake, but this time, you won’t want to hide your face in the pillow, and she won’t cover your mouth to keep the neighbours from hearing.

It’s nothing like the other times, because now, this passion and this intimacy, it isn’t borrowed, it’s given freely. She’s yours. You are hers. You finally gave everything.

Tonight is about you and Amy. No one else.


End file.
